


Pancakes

by MissDelight



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, Origins, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:35:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3867241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDelight/pseuds/MissDelight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drunken Balgruuf wants pancakes.<br/>Irileth and Balgruuf finally talk about their past.<br/>One shot, complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pancakes

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [ this prompt](http://skyrimkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4941.html?thread=11531085#t11531085) on the SkyrimKinkMeme.

Jarl Balgruuf leaned against Gildergreen, breathing the sweet, crisp night air, the smell mingling with the warm fires lighting the path to Dragonsreach. The peaceful atmosphere was no less pleasant despite the sharp sound of Caius retching in the bushes, and it made him chuckle. The old commander of the guard had never been good at holding his drink, always ending the night with more of it in the shrubbery than in his stomach.

Draining his bottle, Balgruuf set the empty glass down.  When he was sure of his footing, he stood on his own, finding the haze of alcohol not too great, but far from slight. The perfect level of drunkenness, he felt, looking around Whiterun with a pleasant, fond grin.

The youngest member of their party, a new recruit named Tobias, lay on the cobblestones, while his fellow guardsmen, Alan and Soran, were entering into a heated discussion.

“Fuck, I have to get home,” the youth slurred sleepily, the Jarl hauling him to his feet and dragging him over to a bench. Tobias looked more than done in for the evening.

“Aye,” Balgruuf agreed, seizing the bottle from the recruit’s drooping hand before he could take another drink. “It’s probably time we called it a night.”

Wordlessly, Balgruuf clapped Caius on the shoulder as he staggered past, the old man waving a hand to imply he was quite well, before loudly doubling over once more into his bush.

Soran had inexplicably ripped off his armor, casting it into Jorrvaskr’s stream, the bare chested Nord swaying unsteadily on his feet, while angrily jabbing a finger at Alan.

“She’sh like a shister to me!  You keep yer no good handsh to yourshelf!” Soran said, flexing his chest muscles in what he deemed an intimidating display.

“ _Fuck!_ I have to get home…” Tobias moaned in the background, the young man lamenting how insurmountable the task was.

“Come on, then! Bring it!" Alan shouted, waving his hands in challenge at Soran. “Think you’re hard enough, pretty boy?!”

“Not so loud, lads,” Balgruuf said, moving between the hot-tempered pair of guards.

“ _There_ you are!”

A collective shudder ran up all of their spines. Balgruuf shook his head in dismay, looking a bit sheepish; like a little boy caught with his hand in the sweet roll tin.

“Curses men, she’s found us,” Balgruuf said. Guiltily, he watched Irileth bearing down on them, her red eyes burning with righteous fury, looking well and truly furious. It was a terrifying sight to behold and one he knew all too well (though he was almost never on the receiving end). He had seen it countless times when they served together, both on the battlefield and off, and it stirred many memories. The first time he had seen the proud and noble Dunmer, she had worn the same expression, putting their pig-headed, milk-drinker of a commander in his place, despite her low rank.

Soran and Alan shrank back, straightening up. Soran’s attempt at looking proper was somewhat ruined by his lack of a shirt.

Tobias lowered his hands from his face and stole one glance up at the Dunmer housecarl before quickly whimpering, “Fuck I have to get home!” in one quick breath.

Caius retched loudly in the bushes in greeting.

Balgruuf began to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but quietly stopped as Irileth fixed a look on him he swore could have melted iron. He quickly intervened as she turned her ire on his companions, shoving Soran toward the new recruit.

“I think Tobias had a good initiation to the guard. Soran, take care of your young friend here and see he gets to his bed. Alan, get Soran’s armor out of the water; see to it that it doesn’t rust.”

The young Nords obeyed, stumbling a bit, but moving as quickly as was possible, eager to distance themselves from the angry housecarl.

“Good lads,” the Jarl said proudly, watching them leave.

“My Lord,” Irileth said, her voice clipped despite her efforts to sound even tempered. “I found an assassin sneaking into your bed chamber.”

“Another one?” the Jarl exclaimed in surprise. “They’re getting bolder. Dagny, Frothar, and Nelkir-?”

Having anticipated his question, she answered in a quick reply.

“Safe.  Extra guards have been posted with them as a precaution.”

“And the assassin?” he asked in a low rumble, standing up to his full height as anger welled within him.

“The intruder has been... _dealt with_ ,” Irileth replied with a sinister air of finality. “Though seeing you missing from your chamber took nearly a hundred years off my life,” she said flatly, giving him a withering look.

“Scared you, did I?” Balgruuf asked, surprise and anger melting away. “Alright, _alright_. We can go back to the castle. But I won’t apologize for leaving it in the first place.”

“I didn’t say a word,” Irileth protested.

“Aye, but you were thinking it.”

The Dunmer chuckled, walking beside him.

“That may be so,” she admitted, keeping a keen eye looking out as they walked.

Balgruuf gazed up at the twin moons, then back to the housecarl.

“Secunda is getting brighter. Remember the Moon Festival, in High Rock?” he asked, wondering if the Bretons of Glenumbra Moors would celebrate it again this year.

“As I recall you went out drinking with the rest of the Nords. The lot of you getting thrown out of the Temple of Dibella for indecency. A feat, in and of itself.”

Balgruuf laughed at the rush of memories.

Stumbling a bit unsteadily on the steps, he found Irileth quickly under his arm, supporting his weight.

“I recall doing this then, as well,” she reminded, her tone good-natured.

It was true, he mused. Many nights she had let him lean on her for balance after he had gone out and had an adventure. She never complained about his galavanting.

Until he became a Jarl.

Funny how life was simpler back when he was a lowly soldier in the Legion. Back when he and Irileth fought shoulder to shoulder. The two of them could capture any point, break any line. The entire army knew, if they couldn’t do it, it couldn’t be done. The world was blessedly simple when they were fighting side by side - kill the bastards surrounding them and keep each other safe. It was uncomplicated, and he missed it every day.

“What was the name of that ridiculous Altmer?” he asked thoughtfully. “The mage that followed you like a puppy? The ‘poet’?” he added with a chuckle. Among other things, he had likened Irileth’s eyes to mudcrab chitin and her hair to creep cluster. Not the brightest star in the constellation, he probably should have stuck to alchemy, but his poetry had made for a source of tremendous amusement to the unit.

“Hmph,” she said, displeased by the topic.  She took a moment, trying to remember. “Kardryn, I think.”

“Kardryn… Was he the one that proposed?” Balgruuf asked. In truth he could not remember.

“No, that was Faerin. The Bosmer who fought with two axes.”

“Faerin!” he bellowed, picturing the large, brown haired Bosmer. “I liked him. The man knew how to fight. And he drank like a true Nord,” he added with a laugh. “Whatever happened to him?” he asked.

Looking around, he was surprised to find they were already in the kitchen of Dragonsreach. He had over-indulged a bit more than he usually did, perhaps overly excited to finally escape from the keep without her noticing, and now he was having trouble keeping his mind focused and his speech pattern straight. Detaching himself from Irileth, he lurched to a seat, and helped himself to some water, in what was probably a vain effort to curb his morning hangover.

“Pancakes,” he said, so completely at random, Irileth cocked her head to the side, her thin features contorted with confusion. “I was so surprised when I tasted them. I didn’t know you cooked,” he mumbled, mouth moving quicker than his mind. “I wished our unit’s chef was sick more often, after that. We all kind of hoped he would get killed in battle,” he added with a chuckle.

Irileth shook her head at the befuddled drunk, looking around the kitchen.

“Do you want me to make pancakes, my Jarl?”

Balgruuf looked up at her with a hopeful smile, bright as the sun.

Without word, she gathered a bowl and a pan, and set to work.

Balgruuf smiled at the unusual sight of her, dressed in full armor, bustling about the kitchen, armed with utensils instead of swords. He pictured her tying an apron over it and wearing a white fluffy chef’s hat, and laughed quietly to himself at the image.

He watched her move about the kitchen with easy grace and familiarity. He’d never watched her cook before, but it was clearly something she was skilled at. It was a funny thing, to realize there were still mysteries between them, after so long.

“Faerin!” he exclaimed pounding a fist on the table.  “You were telling me about Faerin.”

He heard multiple sizzles as the batter landed in the pan.

“You _are_ drunk,” she observed, looking over her shoulder.

“Not so drunk that I can’t tell when you’re dodging a question,” he said knowingly, leaning back in his chair.

Irileth said nothing, quietly intent on tossing and flipping the pancakes.

He watched her reach down and retrieve a plate from a low shelf, eyes following the perfect silhouette of her body. Admiring the way her red hair fell, as he let his imagination roam, picturing her bent over the counter-

He was interrupted from his daydream as a plate of pancakes, covered in juniper berry sauce appeared before him, the scent so tantalizing it made his mouth water and his stomach growl.  Eagerly, he dug in, as Irileth sat beside him.  The taste was a nostalgic reminder of their last week together in the Legion.  The scenario was the same.  After getting thoroughly inebriated at a farewell celebration, Irileth had dragged him back to the barracks and made him pancakes.

He opened his mouth to thank her, when he noticed the sun peeking through the windows. Guiltily, he wondered how long she had been searching Whiterun for him.  Despite her long night, she still cooked for him.  When he looked over at her, he saw her as she was twenty years ago.  Loyally seated by his side, alert, watchful and protective.  The only difference was the armor she wore.

“Faerin proposed at the Flower Festival. I declined. We broke up,” she said with a shrug. He knew her body language implicitly, and that shrug meant she was leaving out half of the story.

Balgruuf finished his last bite of food. Drink had a way of making food taste better than it was, but it seemed like a meal fit for a king. Or a Jarl, as the case was.

“And what made you say no?” he asked.

Irileth considered how to answer.

“Marriage doesn’t interest me,” she said sternly, her voice honest.

A tense silence fell between them. Romance had always been a strangely taboo subject for them. In all their years together, it was left unsaid. He was dangerously close to breaking that unwritten rule with this line of questioning, and they both knew it.

He could smell her scent; it was weapon oil, leather, and something uniquely her.

 _Like home_ , his drunken mind supplied.

“What does interest you?” he eventually asked, leaning forward.

Balgruuf stared at her until her eyes met his, both of them mentally calculating where the discussion could or should go.

He was amazed when she placed a hand on his arm, his blue eyes looking from it, to her lovely face.

“Keeping you safe,” she said, voice raw with honesty.

He had no counter to that, no argument. Wordlessly, he let her pull him to his feet, and help him up the stairs to his room.

Irileth set him on the bed and turned away. She drew a sharp breath as Balgruuf grabbed her hand and pulled her down. Using the full force of his strength, he swept her into his lap, one arm around her back, the other behind her head. He was surprised at how tiny she was, surrounded in his embrace. Kissing her before she could object, he inhaled her scent, tightening his arms around her. Their kiss felt like a moment trapped in time, one he wanted to stay in forever. Countless years of desire were poured into it, and when he finally broke away from her warm lips, he hungrily moved to devour her neck.

Strong hands digging into his shoulders with a frightful strength made him pause.

Face buried against her neck, he sighed, holding the petite woman against him, listening to her quick breaths and feeling the quick pulse of her throat against his cheek.

“ _This_ is leave in Valenwood all over again,” she finally said disapprovingly. He could hear her uneasy swallowing, could tell how much she wanted him as he wanted her, and could practically hear her thinking - trying to muster the will to leave.

“Do you ever think about Valenwood?” he whispered huskily against her throat, toying with the straps of her armor, knowing how much it excited her.

“Yes. It was a mistake; a failing on my part. As is my being in your bed now.”

Balgruuf smiled hopefully, not hearing a ‘no’, nor any sign of retreat.

Leaning back, he ran his fingers through her soft, red hair, gazing adoringly into her ruby eyes.

“I wish you’d never found out my father was Jarl of Whiterun. Damn loud mouthed commander knew you’d leave me-”

“I would have found out eventually,” she snorted. “Not that you were going to tell me at any point.”

Balgruuf laughed nostalgically, running his hands wistfully over her thighs. It felt good to say everything out loud; Valenwood had been off the table for so long - as if it had never happened. And when you treated something like it had never happened, after awhile, it almost seemed like it never had. And it was a memory he never wanted to lose.

“You didn’t want to get married,” he said, the disappointment still heavy in his heart.

“Especially not to someone _betrothed_ to wed another,” she snapped, sounding annoyed that he left the point out.

Immediately she looked regretful as he fixed her with crestfallen blue eyes.

“Would you have stayed, if I had refused to be wed?”

All at once, her stern expression melted away, slender fingers stroking his blonde locks. She did everything she could to make the remorseful look on his face vanish.

“No,” she whispered, cupping his cheek. “You did everything right. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. It wasn’t the betrothal. It was all of it. Marriage, children - I’ve never wanted any of that. The battlefield is where I feel alive; where I’m home.”

She smiled wryly at the look of understanding on his face.

“It’s where you feel alive, too. We’re so alike,” she said with a laugh. “Had our roles had been switched, I think I would have done the same. Gotten married, had children, become a jarl. Left the battle behind.”

He quirked his head.

“You did leave the battle. You came back with me to Whiterun after my enlistment ended...”

Eyes widening, he looked at her in surprise, appreciating the depth of sacrifice it had taken for Irileth to leave the army.

“I could manage that much,” she said, comfortably resting her arms around him.  “And keeping you safe is a rewarding endeavor.  Even if I had wanted marry, could you imagine the other Jarls allying with a Nord, wed to a Dunmer?”

“Oblivion take the other Jarls,” Balgruuf said hotly. “I wouldn’t have given a damn.”

Irileth only laughed.

“Which is why I love you. One reason, of many.”

Pulling the strings of her armor apart, he tossed aside the iron, relieved to be free of her leggings. Once she was lightened of the armor, he easily rolled them onto the bed, laying atop her.

“Oh? I can’t wait to hear all of the rest. And there’s no escaping it now I know there are ‘many’.”

“Me and my big mouth,” she said, giving him a wry smile.

“Aye, I’m onto your tricks,” he said, moving a hand beneath her shirt, exploring her smooth skin. “As I’m sure letting me have my way with you is all so you can keep me from wandering down to the bar. Damn slave driver.”

“To keep you from getting killed,” she corrected. “And that’s not why I’m here.”

Leaning up, she pressed her body against him, the curve of her fitting him like a glove.

“I'm here to watch for assassins. It’s much easier to do that from your bed.”

Balgruuf’s hand traveled lower, pulling aside the cloth around her hips.

“Then I expect you will be spending a lot more time in it, in the future. How should we pass the time, I wonder?” he whispered in her ear.

“We could always re-enact Valenwood,” she said suggestively in a seductive whisper. “Oh, and if you try to sneaking out to the bar again…” she began, nipping his ear almost painfully, “ _I will tie you down to this bed_ , my Jarl.”

Balgruuf chuckled, teasing the sensitive skin of her inner thighs.

“I’ll be looking forward to it.”


End file.
